Memorial day Reality

A VA Day

I saw the brother in a wheel chair sitting in a corner of the room.
Missed him on first glance
Don’t know how I could have.
His eyes, locked in fight or flight, filled the room with their emptiness. (Does he ever blink?)

A sensitive soul perhaps
Unable to make the midnight blast from family farm to killing field.
Had not the bravado to shake hands with the dead
Nor shake the smell of napalm from his nose.

Taught the fight was amongst men
Hand to hand on the field of battle.
Glory…..Honor and Heroism.
No one mentioned the sight of children dying
And old women crying
And old men frying.

The brother in a wheel chair
Had a tale to tell
But it seemed that few could listen
As the truth is hard to hear.
No need.
His eyes, they told it for him.

As I passed him in the lobby
And he sat there all alone
It took me less that a minute to think this thought.
The brother in a wheel chair appeared to have been
Locked in the same thought for the last forty years.

The Story

This guy is fascinating to me . . . like one day I took a walk in Central Park and discovered a long lost brother from the sixties before everybody was pigeon holed into this huge social trap of sameness. A time when free thought and weirdness was the order of the day. . . . We need more bonobo’s like him to come out of hiding and not be afraid to do it.

Whats YOUR story? . . . . . . . . .

Poetry

I took to looking for poetry on the blogs this morning and was sorely displeased with what I found. Now I am almost (not quite) an ancient human being and I came from another era I know, but today’s poetry, forgive my saying, stinks. It is so dark and so dreary it makes even Poe’s stuff seem bright.

Back in the day, even though Vietnam was raging and the draft was on, young people wrote about hope and change (before it became bullshit, Obama)  Dylan led a large crowd and the coffee houses were filled with poets and songsters. The mikes were open to all sorts of greatness (as well as nonsense) . . . but the mood was “WOW” . . . upbeat.

It’s just my personal opinion I know, but I love Dylan and Robert Service and Robert Frost as well as many others. (including Poe!)

Maybe today’s crowd is so intent on being current and different they forgot that, no matter how great their poetry and their music and their art is . . . it is all a language and a language that cannot be understood is worthless. It’s like a preacher speaking in tongues. Who of (less than God) can even understand what the hell he is even talking about.

This poem is for you because it may be that you have not just gotten off the beaten path, but are lost in the jungle of moroseness . . . .

PS If you find what I said offensive, take a look around, read a bunch of poems and try to figure out what the writer is even talking about . . . if you can, more power to you cause this old man sure as all hell can’t . . .

 

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Rainmakers

anger

 

 

Standing alone
In the freezing rain
Among the insane
There is no pain
There is no gain.

The thrill of the fight
The rush while in flight,
Away we go . . . into the night.

Standing alone
Wanting to scream
But it’s not easy to scream
In this fucked up dream.

Where the bullets are slow
And my barrel is bent.
And my target
Will never stay down.

Standing alone
In the rain
Among the crying, among the dying
Watching war go round.

Again-and again-and again.

 

Tao Te Ching (chapter 10)

good vs evil

Original version:

Can one unite the body and the spirit as one and embrace the “Oneness” without departing from the great Tao?

Can one achieve harmony with such gentleness by holding on to the true spirit within as if the innocence of an infant?

Can one free oneself from worldly knowledge and cleanse one’s mind, so that no faults shall be made?

Can a ruler love his people by governing with the natural Way without personal intention? Can the mystic gate to all life essence be opened or closed without the virtue of the mysterious nature?

Can one gain the insight of nature and become a wise person without the effort of action? The mysterious nature creates and nurtures all things without the desire to possess them. It performs with all efforts without claiming for credit.

It flourishes all beings without the intention to take control of. Such is the “Mystic Te” or “Mystic Virtue.”

 

My interpretation:

How hard is it for you to endure the weight of your own ego, while at the same time seeking to embrace the Tao?

Can you ever go backwards to early childhood, before you picked up all the bad habits?

Can you make it all new again by shining up the old ego, and presenting it’s sameness in a different light?

In your ego driven life, will you ever truly love the people under you more than the power you have over them?

Are you capable of being a nurturing boss?

Are you capable of realizing that without embracing the wisdom of the Tao you really aren’t too bright?

The Tao nurtures her children and takes no thought of ownership.

She acts on their behalf yet does not demand obeisance.

She, although being their steward, does not act like a boss.

All this is true virtue.